


Stealing The Show

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acting, Actors, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Theatre, John is a director, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock is the leading man, Theatre, play subplot, theatrical AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-07 22:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3185762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a director, putting on a new play written by his friend Molly Hooper. They think they've got the perfect cast. One Mr Sherlock Holmes as the leading man, Sally Donovan as leading lady, Jim Moriarty and Irene Adler as the other principal roles... But there are more problems than expected, the main one being Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Casting and Casting Some More

**Author's Note:**

> This will be johnlock!  
> And btw, I'm writing this play as I go along... Maurice is a visionary (Sherlock), Helena is his wife (Sally). However when in London Maurice meets the attractive young Nelson (Jim) and a benefactor with designs on his person (Irene).  
> Problems to be potentially encountered include: Anderson's rival production of 1984 in the studio next door, John's attraction to Sherlock, Sherlock and Sally arguing all the time, Irene being too saucy for her own good, Jim's influential critic boyfriend/protector Sebastian Moran.... and much more!

“Okay, thank you Mr Jones. We’ll call you if you get the part.” The man shambled off, and the casting manager called for the next candidate. John sighed. God, he hated auditioning. All the idiots, all the bumbling stupid people who just weren’t right for the part in any way who turned up and mumbled or shouted their way through the script. It made him want to scream.

 When he had good actors – the right actors – and a proper script, then he could start, then he could dig in and make some headway, but finding the right people was something he hated. The laboriousness of it, having to be constantly polite to people who must have known they were entirely wrong for the part.  He wished he could leave it all to casting and the writer, but that he could not do. He didn’t trust them not to let the one slip through their fingers. Somewhere underneath he had a terrible idea that they would choose the wrong person, and he would be deprived of his perfect cast. Thus he endured auditioning.

The next man came in, and this time John looked up. His breath caught. There was something, something indefinable but undeniably _there_ , in this man. He had chocolate curls looping luxuriously around his head and lapping at his neck, and his forget-me-not eyes sparkled with a degree of humour and…and that indefinable undeniable _something_. He was tall and pale, his lips full and pale, his limbs long and lithe. He wore a crisp white shirt, and equally crisp black trousers. In his hand was a long grey coat, which he sat on the chair behind him. He did not sit on the chair, though, and John took that to be a good sign. It meant he was eager. It was the lazy and the over-confident that sat on that chair, in John’s experience. He kept it there as a sort of test.

“What’s your name?” John asked.

“Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes.” The man’s voice was yet another layer, smooth and deep with a hint of gravel underneath. _Like chocolate with nutty bits in_ , John thought.

“Right.” The writer, Molly, a rather nervous sort of woman but utterly brilliant at what she did, handed John the man’s credentials. John gave her a smile of thanks, and scanned the page, flipping it over. “You don’t have much experience, do you?” John said, wondering why. This boy fair sparkled with talent.

“No, not really. I was going to be a chemist, you see,” Sherlock explained.

“Oh. Did it all fall through? Not get the grades you expected?”

“Oh no,” Clearly Sherlock considered plan B as something that happened to other people. “I simply thought that that career of mine could wait, and I’ve always loved acting. I was in a production just after finals, and it opened my eyes to a whole new world, to put it in clichéd terms.”

“Right. Oh, yes…a first in Chemistry…from Cambridge…aged 20…and half a phD.” John looked up, stunned. “My God man, you’re some sort of genius. Why the hell are you going into acting? You realise you’ll earn pittance and be out of work half the time?”

“I plan to be out of work as little as possible.” Sherlock replied, curtly. “And besides, I can go back and finish my doctorate on scholarship whenever I wish. I am not without reasonable safety nets.”

“All right, all right…let’s see you act. I’ll read Helena, and you fill in Maurice. You have your script?”

“No. I don’t need a script. I’ve memorised the piece.”

John raised an incredulous eyebrow, turning over his own script. “If you’re sure. Right, then. From ‘Sometimes I wonder what you think you’re doing.’.” John said, and coughed, preparing himself to repeat the line.

“Could you come up here and say it?” Sherlock asked.

John looked up quizzically. “I don’t think that’s strictly necessary.” he said.

“I’m a very tactile actor, Mr Watson.” _So he knows my name,_ John thought. _He’s done his research. Good on the boy._

“Fine, fine.” He stood up. He actually found himself quite liking the idea of being touched by those slim, light hands. He walked up and stood beside Sherlock, turning to face him, looking down at the script and then back up into those blue, blue eyes. “Sometimes I wonder what you think you’re doing.” he said.

“What I think I’m doing?” The boy’s voice soared. “Oh Helena, how can you ask me that?” he sounded genuinely hurt. “I thought you understood, I really thought you understood. My God, I thought at least someone might. Is it too much to ask? Must every visionary be alone? So many are. I wonder why? Is it that the solitude aids the mind, forces it on to wonders? Or is it simply that the world seeks to deny us our inheritance, seeks to stop us being who we were made to be, fulfilling our potential? Is it man versus the world? Or is it man versus God, or man versus humanity? How can we tell? Dear God, Helena, why is the world so full of question marks?”

Sherlock turned away from John, and continued his impassioned speech. “I am no hero, Helena, and I do not claim to be. I am a poet and a dreamer, a prophet and a madman. You label me as all or you may label me as none. I shall take each name, bestowed as insult or as chalice to me, and I wear them as their burden or their perfume.

“Helena, if you cannot understand me, then I shall leave you until you can. I’m going to town. Perhaps I’ll come back, and perhaps I won’t, and if I die, I die without you, and on your head so be it.” And with that Sherlock stalked off to the edge of room, before grinning and coming back. John, slightly shaken, returned to his seat. _Oh God he’s too much. Too perfect. And, I think, horribly obnoxious and quite probably a pain in the arse, but gorgeous and all too perfect._

“Er, you may go, now, Sherlock…Mr Holmes.” John said. “We’ll, um, call you with details if you get the part.”

“Thank you.” The boy smiled dazzlingly, picked up his coat and, swirling it around himself, removed himself from the room.

Mike Stamford, the casting director, turned to John, and Molly turned too. “He’s perfect.” Molly said. “It’s as if I wrote Maurice based on him.”

“And he adds such a spice…” John added, tone slightly wistful.

Mike grinned. “I knew you two would like him. I told him to audition for the role. He was going to go in for Winston in Anderson’s 1984, but I said this’d be a better bet, for all Molls is a small playwright. It has to be said, John, that of you and Anderson you’re the better director.”

John smiled. Trust Mike to organise everything in the background. Then he frowned, a small realisation sinking in. “Do we have to audition all the rest of them?” he asked.

Mike nodded. “We owe them that much, John. Just sit through it. I’ll read in Helena.” He paused. “By the way, I have the most _perfect_ actress in mind for her.”

Soon enough, the cast was set and had all been rung and told they had the part (Sherlock last, because as John said, that boy needed no more self-confidence; he was already borderline narcissistic). The producer had hired them a studio, one John had used before. On the Monday they were due to start rehearsals, Molly and John met at the studio and let themselves in, surveying the place. John sat down in a chair, his feet on a table. Molly leant against the ballet bar, reflected in the mirrors that lined the wall, and sipped coffee.

“Looking forward to it?” John asked, leaning back in the chair.

Molly shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s a great cast, but we just have to see if the dynamics work.”

John nodded, and glanced at his watch. “They’ll be here in a minute.”

Sure enough, in about ten minutes the cast were assembled in a strange-looking huddle in the middle of the room. “Right.” John said, standing up. “I think we’d better all get to know each other. Grab a chair each and make a circle.” The cast did so, chattering amongst themselves. Then, when they were seated, John continued. “We’ll all say our names, our role and the last production we worked on.” This caused several raised eyebrows among the actors.

Monica, the producer, entered at that point and stood leaning against the wall, watching them. Everyone saw her and knew they had better behave. “I’ll start.” John said. “I’m John Watson, and I’m the director. The last production I worked on was Twelfth Night, the Biscuit Box one with Nathan Kendrick.” He pointed to his left.

Molly put down her coffee. “Molly Hooper. I wrote the play, and my last production was Knees And Toes with Rhinestadt Theatre.”

John stared pointedly at the next actor, a short black girl with hair in thick braids curled on top of her head. She introduced herself as Mary Winters. “In the chorus, last production was Who Killed Mr Money.”

The next person, a rather camp gentleman with red hair, said his name was Anthony Harrison. “In the ensemble, last production was WWW dot.”

The girl after him was tall and blonde. “Lorna Stanton, chorus. This is my first proper production.”

Then came a tall, strikingly beautiful dark-haired woman with pale skin, crimson lips and beautifully arched eyebrows. “Irene Adler. I play Amanda, Maurice’s benefactor. My last production was Secrets Of Sex.” No-one was surprised. She looked exactly fit for erotica, especially considering what she was wearing, which was a mid-length black dress which rustled with a beguiling swish of silk.

After her was another black girl with brown-black hair that wriggled fearsomely. “Sally Donovan.” she said, in a voice that sounded like it would take no trouble from anyone. “I play Helena, Maurice’s wife. My last production was The Taming Of The Shrew with the Londonderry Theatre.”

Next was a shorter man with rugged black hair and a mischievous expression. “Jim Moriarty,” he said, and it was found that he had an Irish accent. “I play Nelson, Maurice’s lover.”

Then, finally, came Sherlock. John had been watching him since he came in. The tousled chocolate curls were the same, but this time the young man was wearing a t-shirt and smooth grey skinny jeans (which clung, John noticed, perfectly to his legs with barely a crease). “Sherlock Holmes.” he said, in that lilting low coffee-and-cream voice. “I play Maurice, visionary extraordinaire. I’ve not done a professional production before now.” Most people were a bit surprised at that.

They ran through the first lot of scenes that morning, and John found that he had, in general, cast the characters well. The chemistry between Sherlock and all the other actors was good ( _And how could it fail to be,_ John wondered, _when he had such eyes and cheekbones?_ ), and the ensemble worked well as a group. Everything was going along smoothly, even if he had a sense that Sherlock and Sally were a disastrous argument waiting to happen, and Irene was a little too coquettish for her own good.


	2. Wooden As A Wooden Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Practise continues, factions form, and Sally and Sherlock are wooden as wardrobes.

Then everyone dissipated for lunch. The actors left in two distinct groups; evidently Sherlock and Sally divided opinion. Mary of the chorus and Jim went out with Sally, cliquishly. Mary John could understand; she and Sally had a lot in common in the way they looked at the world (i.e. them against the rest of it and no space to be made for stuck-up posh men). Jim he was surprised at, however. He and Sherlock had arrived together, and he’d got the impression that they were friends. Perhaps not.

Sherlock had collected Irene, who seemed to take an amused interest in the arrogant child. He also had Lorna, which was probably because Sally had said something rude about blondes earlier and she’d taken it rather to heart. And he had Anthony, too. The ensemble, it seemed, were in the majority on his side. John had a sneaking suspicion that Anthony rather fancied Sherlock. They’d be a good looking couple, John supposed, but something about it wasn’t quite right. Anthony hadn’t the spark for Sherlock. And besides, from the way Irene and Molly were looking at him, John had rather got the impression that Sherlock was straight. Nothing, as it happened, could be further from the truth, but John wasn’t to know that.

Molly was sent out and returned with sandwiches and coffee, which she, John and Monica sat down to eat at one of the little tables in the room. “They’re good,” Monica said, taking another bite of sandwich.

“The cast or the sandwiches?” John asked, taking a swig of coffee.

“The cast.”

“Yes, I know.” His coffee cup discarded now, John adjusted his sweater.

“You chose well.”

“Thank Mike for that.”

“Don’t I get a mention?” Molly chipped in, raising an eyebrow and sipping primly at her drink.

“Sorry – and Molls.” John amended, grinning. “The dynamic works well.” he continued. “But I think we may have factionality on our hands if we’re not careful.”

“Factionalism, John.” Molly corrected.

“Same difference. I think we might end up with divisions.”

“Yes. You two need to work on group unity. Keep them in check. Remind them they can be cut if needs be.” Monica paused. “I could always get someone in to help you out...”

John and Molly’s faces turned, synchronised, to expressions of pure horror. “No!” they exclaimed, in unison.

Monica laughed. “Not if you don’t want it.” She shrugged. “I’m just saying, you’re going to have to put some serious work into this one. You’ve got stars in your cast, but if you can’t make them gel we’re screwed. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to get to a meeting. I’ll check in on you later if I have time, but I can’t promise anything.” And with that she stood, hoisted her bag over her shoulder and left, high heels clattering on the yellow-varnished floor.

When the cast returned, John decided to get into some in-depth study with them. …Well, some in-depth study with Sally and Sherlock.

“Okay, so I want to see some more tenderness in those beginning scenes,” he said. The two principal actors were up on stage, everyone else sat on chairs pushed up against the wall, facing the stage-area. “Remember, you’re a young married couple. You’ve been in love for a long time, and you’re accustomed to each other, but still in a good place. Nice and sweet. Let’s go from ‘your tie’s not on straight.’” John stood back, watching.

Sherlock was seated in the chair. Sally leaned over him from the left, fiddling with his collar. “Your tie’s not on straight.” she said, in a tone of familiar worriedness. “Here.” She twiddled her fingers some more and then stood back, surveying her charge. John looked down at the script he held in his hand. “Honestly, Maurice, how do you expect to get a job if you can’t even put a tie on properly.”

Sherlock sighed. “You know this isn’t what I want, Helena. This isn’t right – I’m a poet, a worker of words, not some common labourer.”

“I know, but we need the money.” Sally’s mouth turned downwards in an expression of sympathetic exasperation. “Please, Maurice. Do it for us.” She paused, bent forward, her pose pleading. “For me.”

Sherlock made to sigh, and then smiled instead, in a relenting way. “All right.” he said. “For you.” And he kissed her, lightly, on the cheek.

“And cut!” John called, standing up. The two actors instantly lapsed from their positions. “Okay, good, you’ve got the tenderness down a pat. But I need passion as well.” He sighed. “You’re good with the arguing. I’ve seen that. But we haven’t practised for the love scene yet. Now, obviously I don’t have the proper stuff, but you’ll be using a table. I can get one of those.” He dragged one over. “Sally, I’m glad to see you got the memo about wearing dresses so we can practise all this stuff. Helena wears skirts and dresses throughout, anyway, because of the time period. Now, we need to choreograph this scene. It’s in the flashbacks, in the early, halcyon days of their marriage. You, Sherlock, need to whisk Sally in, holding hands.”

The two actors gave each other vehement death-glares and then joined hands, Sherlock pulling Sally into the room in a rather unfeeling sweep. John stared, appalled. These were good actors – great actors – so how in hell were they managing to massacre this simple movement? He walked across to them. “No, no, no.” he said, angrily, taking Sherlock by the arm (he would have gone for the shoulders, but the height difference made that impossible) and manoeuvring him aside.

 “What were you thinking? How can you be this wooden? The both of you! Sally, I want girlishness, eager enthusiasm. Sherlock, I want excitement, lust. Please, guys. Put some effort into it.” He stomped back to his place, and motioned for them to try again. They did. The effect wasn’t pleasing. He found he had to move them manually from place to place, demonstrate the action with Molly. Eventually they got it, but it took three quarters of an hour, with intermittent ranting. And there was the whole scene to finish.

True, it was only the first day, and it wasn’t necessary that they nail the scene in one sitting but all the same, he was infuriated. Frustrated, he called a break, and sat down to condolences from Molly.

Unable to face any more of Sally and Sherlock’s disaster, he spent the rest of the afternoon schooling the chorus in how to assume their roles perfectly. The main cast sat, bored. Jim was blowing pink spheres of bubble-gum as he watched, his eyebrows raised; Sherlock was staring at the ceiling; Sally appeared to be playing Candy Crush and Irene was texting someone, a smirk on her crimson-painted lips.

As everyone made to leave at five o’clock, John caught Sherlock’s arm. “Look, you were really awful in that scene with Sally. I know you two don’t work well together but just…try to work it out.” he said, and then stopped, an idea turning the cogs in his brain. “In fact, I’ll do one-on-one sessions with you both to work on it before I put you together again. What are you doing this evening?”

“Nothing.”

“In that case, would you be okay with coming round to my flat to work on your side of the scene?”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“What time?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” John looked around, absently. It had been a spur of the moment idea. A brilliant one, yes, but not one he’d had time to work out the details with.  “Say nine? You know where my flat is?”

“I do. And nine is perfect.” Sherlock’s lips stretched in a smile, and then he swirled his coat over his shoulders and was gone.

John stared after him, and Molly made a rather snide comment about his expression which he didn’t entirely hear, being focussed on other things.

**Author's Note:**

> Does anyone have anything they'd particularly like to see? Characters who could play roles in rival plays or be benefactors/make-up artists/set makers/costume designers etc. (bearing in mind Janine is playing Julia in Anderson's 1984, Lestrade is a manager, Kate is a costume designer and make-up artist, Mrs Hudson runs the actor's boarding house where both Sherlock and Jim board). Also does anyone have any outfits they really want to see Sherlock in?


End file.
